


Nocturne

by Jamz24



Series: Light And Shade - Elu Stories [4]
Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Closets, Cruising Fic, Eventual Hope & Happiness, Exhibitionism, Fluff, It's the early 60's in Paris, M/M, Multi, New Take on the Eye-Fucking Scene, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pretty Filth, Public Blow Jobs, SKAM - Freeform, Shameless Smut, Smut with Anonymous Mec, Voyeurism, elu - Freeform, skamfrance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 09:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18140657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamz24/pseuds/Jamz24
Summary: Tonight’s the night! Go and talk to him!Lucas has often seen the tall, handsome boy in their local cruising-ground, but he’s never had the courage to approach him – until now.Cruising fic done in a black-and-white 60s movie style, in which Eliott searches for light in the darkness, and Lucas takes the wrong way home. Contains tunnels and Polaris references.(Kind of a parallel universe companion fic to my OG Skam fic “The Night We Met” – enjoy!)





	Nocturne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skamsnake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skamsnake/gifts).



> At last! Some angst. You’re welcome.
> 
> A "nocturne" is both the artistic term for a painting of a night scene, or musical term for a short (usually melancholic) piano piece; so fit your own soundtrack!
> 
> In the 1960’s, a law was introduced against public sex and soliciting in France, ostensibly against prostitution and pimping, but it was often levied against the LGBTQ cruising community. Imagine Elu styled in leather jackets and drainpipe jeans like the anti-heroes in a Jean-Luc Godard or François Truffaut movie and we’re off!

Eliott’s been searching for light in the darkness for a long time.

The tunnel is where he goes most often to search, a section of the disused, deep-cut railway line that encircles Paris in a ring, running through parks and along the backs of housing estates alike. _La Petite Ceinture_ it’s called, or _the little belt_ , abandoned since the last trains ran along it in 1934, at intervals bare and littered with trash, at other times overgrown and shrouded in trees. Over one particular deserted cutting there runs a bridge, held up by iron girders and dark cornered brickwork, throwing a deep shadow over a secret, subterranean tunnel that houses its darkest secrets.

About this time when the night is at its fullest, the tunnel is alive with the muffled scrape of shoes on gravel and the echo of whispers, the faint creak of the gate that leads down from the park and the _shhh, shhh, shhh_ from shadows thronging the darkness.

Eliott walks through the shrouding woods without fear, following the familiar girders towards the tunnel. Down here he feels safe, accepted; there’s a complicity in darkness that takes the colour out of everything. It smooths out any details of age, race or marital status, it blurs the details of faces and clothes and other identifying features. The men who visit the tunnel at La Petite Ceinture are all the same, the same as him; they come on their own, leave on their own, and they’re all looking for the same thing.

Under the bridge tonight there’s the familiar _drip drip drip_ of the water down the walls, the usual dark shapes lined up along the wall with other figures kneeling in front of them, the muffled grunts and curses from those standing and the sound of stifled gasps and swallowing from those underneath. The moonlight doesn’t reach far underneath the iron-girdered bridge, or inside in the darkest corners; instead there’s a multitude of blind noises around him that Eliott sees by sound alone, like an eyeless fish moving along the ocean floor picking up the sense of things around it by sonar. From one shadow comes the hard thud of flesh on flesh in brutal unremitting rhythm; from another the noise of a zipper or the pop of buttons and the wordless gasping of someone clutching and scratching at the wall for support.

There’s little or no conversation – the conventions and relationships of daylit society have no power down here in this netherworld; you ask nobody their name, and nobody asks yours. No matter if you might be a soldier, a priest, a father, or a teacher; all human life can be found here, freed for the moment from expectation and the world’s demands, a nameless place of solace and instant gratification, of darkness and intimacy and anonymity.

Eliott thought he’d find light here, in this judgement-free and secret underworld, and a few times he’s thought he has. During the day he hides his glances and keeps his thoughts to himself; though he’s so lonely that even a kind word, an affectionate touch on his shoulder or a friendly, platonic smile from a man can make his heart pound yearningly and imagine all sorts of hopeful things.

But the light he finds doesn’t stretch very far, there’s no illumination to brighten the longer road that he’s travelling, and the hopes he so carefully nurtures wither and die when the sun comes up. The men he meets in La Petite Ceinture are all too soon ready to get back to their wives, girlfriends or children, brushing him off their clothes like cigarette ash.

Eliott never wants them to go; when he’s down on his knees in front of them trying to please them he’ll do anything for a loving word, a loving look or a man to walk him home – hell, do as little as walk him to the park gate, even. But the _mecs_ are all the same, they take what Eliott has to give and then they’re gone, fading into the night along the deserted railway track like the walking shadows that they are.

***

Lucas always wants the men to go, because when he’s done watching, fingers curling and scrabbling in his jeans for release, he can see the tall boy properly, see the slight hesitant stoop in his tall frame as if he’s trying to take up less space than he does, and the nervous, slightly compulsive nibbling of his fingernails, as if seeking comfort from the touch of his own lips on his fingers.

It’s an oral, Freudian gesture, as unguarded as a baby or a shy schoolgirl, and it betrays the youth and the naivete under the street-smart outfit of sleek leather jacket, white shirt and tight black jeans that otherwise make the boy seem as he’s walked straight out of a _Left Bank_ movie. Lucas likes the way the boy looks; tall and messy-haired, and a gentle, sculpted face outlined in the faint moonlight, with an ever-hopeful innocence in his eyes that is all but vanished from most of the regulars of _La Petite Ceinture._

Tonight Lucas has come down here to watch, like he always does, fascinated by the quiet nocturnal dance where two or three figures approach, mingle and separate, often with barely a word being exchanged, before another one appears and the dance begins all over again. He doesn’t often recognise the punters – most people stay out of what little moonlight there is – but he recognises the tall boy, and his heart pumps hard for a moment, before he gathers himself together and takes up his regular spot on the bank where he can see most of what’s going on.

He’d first come here by accident – honestly by accident – he’d missed the last bus home and decided to take a short cut. He’d taken the wrong road and realised that he had to double back on himself, jumping down onto the disused cutting in mingled excitement and fear at the shadowy passage stretching around him. As he’d passed underneath the bridge he’d seen a flicker of movement and his heart stood still a moment, before he’d _seen_ – and since then he hadn’t been able to stop himself _watching_ , nor coming back; night after night after night.

They’ve never spoken, but the tall boy seems to know that Lucas is watching, it’s another part of the dance that they’ve fallen into, and little by little Lucas has stopped hiding his interest. Every night his eyes are only for the tall boy, who he goes with and what he does, fascinated by the way he looks both so powerful and yet so timid, the almost pleading, yearning gaze in his long-lashed eyes, that sometimes glance shyly at Lucas and away again, as if frightened to hold his glance for a second, or, perhaps, to be _seen_.

Tonight, as ever, the tall boy stands shyly, waiting for someone to approach him, one long leg hooked nervously around the other like a kid on the first day at a new school, or a hesitant stork on the opposite bank of a river where tigers are drinking. Lucas’s fingers prick with anticipation and adrenalin, and he can feel the blood heating his chest with an insistent, thudding heartbeat.

_Tonight, now, go over to him, speak to him –_

But he’s still frightened, he’s still a watcher, a ghost in this neighbourhood; he’s not brave enough to step down into the tunnel and touch a creature of the night. He’s scared by the idea that really it’s not what he wants or that it won’t be what he’s imagined; fearful of the bite of the vampire and the age-old fears drummed in to him by his mother, children’s fairy stories about devils and dragons that live in the darkness, and the old priest’s words from the pulpit every Sunday, the threat of hell and everlasting damnation –

He clenches his hands together in his pockets in frustration at his own weakness; _damn it._

The tall boy hasn’t seen him yet, loitering in fake casualness at the entrance of the tunnel, glancing nervously around him at the thronging visitors. Lucas can hear the boy’s thoughts as clearly as if he was speaking them out loud; _is tonight the night I find it – is there someone who will love me – is there some light in this darkness –_

Lucas takes his courage in both hands and stands up, willing his feet to move towards the boy. He feels like he’s wading through treacle, but by the time he takes a few dragging steps he’s too late, another man has approached the tall boy, put one hand on his shoulder and led him away.

***

Eliott’s down on his knees in the tunnel again, surrounded by the blackness and the echoing subterranean soundscape like a submarine scraping along the bottom of the sea. He could be twenty thousand leagues deep down here, as far from sight or rescue as the crew of the _Nautilus_ in the Jules Verne books that he loved as a kid.

As the _mec_ standing above him fumbles with his belt and his buttons, Eliott gazes dully through the blurry mist of the tunnel entrance. On the nearside bank he can see a small figure outlined in the starlight; it’s _that boy_ again – the little, reclusive one who always stays out of reach – sitting in his usual spot, and Eliott’s jaded spirits suddenly raise at the sight.

He’s pretty, this boy; small and delicate looking as if a gust of wind might blow him away, but with a strange composure that makes him look much older than his seventeen years, sitting up straight like a small descended angel amid the dark, snuffling shapes of the _Ceinture_ crowd. Tonight he’s wearing a soft white leather biking jacket and jeans, and the way the moonlight is hitting his hair into a fluffy nest of silver makes Eliott suddenly want to bury his nose in it and scent him; breathe him in like oxygen, smell something good and sweet and homely –

The _mec_ thumbs Eliott’s mouth open impatiently and braces his cock in readiness, flicking it expectantly against his cheek. Eliott sighs, closes his eyes, parts his lips and obeys, letting the thick pungent length of flesh slide over his tongue and lodge itself in his throat in a brusque, entitled motion. He bobs his head for a few moments, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard; this is what he’s used to after all, this is what he’s _here_ for –  but when he pulls back up for breath with a sharp pop to catch his breath, he can see the boy on the bank is still staring in his direction.

They lock eyes for a moment and Eliott feels exposed and uncertain in a way he doesn’t usually feel, as if the boy’s large eyes are shining a light onto him, seeing right into his soul.

The next second he loses sight of the boy momentarily as the _mec_ puts a hand on the back of his head, pushes him firmly down onto his cock and grinds into his throat for a few hard moments. Eliott’s mind goes blank as it always does, this should be the moment where he senses himself letting go the torments and the anxieties of the daylit world; but this time he doesn’t feel freedom and the sense of release. Instead he feels suffocated and imprisoned, wishing he was holding someone special instead of a nameless six inches of cock, wishing that the hands gripping his hair painfully were sweeter and gentler, wishing –

When he finally manages to pull off, eyes watering and coughing from the several hard lengths delivered straight into the back of his mouth, the boy is sitting attentively up on his knees, as riveted on him as a small pointer hound watching a grouse. Eliott stares back, the hairs all along his arms standing up as the air crackles between them with something indefinable, like the barely-heard noise of wheels on a track, the far-away rumble as the train approaches, that electrified moment between the thunder-crack and the lightning bolt of a coming storm –

The boy has his jeans unbuttoned now – he hasn’t done that before – and Eliott’s own cock twitches at the sight; he himself has been limp and lacklustre since the man got in his mouth, but at the sight of the boy’s arousal his own comes flooding over him in a wave. The boy’s large eyes seem to take in every inch of him and it’s a feeling so intense it almost _hurts_ ; Eliott feels somehow exposed and naked despite the fact he’s still fully dressed, and the sensation burns sweetly at his balls, making his mouth water. He adjusts himself surreptitiously with one hand as the _mec_ pats his cheek, whispering something, and his eyes dart back to seek out the boy on the bank, hand now sneaking shyly into his open fly, as if he’s going to –

With a sudden burst of excitement, Eliott drops his tongue and lets the man slide over his tongue and down his throat, seeing as he does so the boy’s wrist making the same, long surging movement, and the taut, urgent bucking of his hips as he sits up on his heels –

***

Lucas half-closes his eyes and takes himself in hand, pulling his cock fully out of his jeans; this kind of bravery is new for him, usually he just gropes around blindly and surreptitiously or waits until later when he can relieve himself over everything he’s seen in the quiet of his own bedroom, but this time his cock is so hard that it’s beginning to hurt, a sharp, needy ache that won’t stop until he –

He lets his fingers stroke up and down, as gently as he can without edging himself too much, his tip wet with precum already, the pungent smell already seeping through the air. The tall boy has noticed him, Lucas knows; he can see the outline of his profile and his long-lashed, cat-like eyes follow his every movement. He kneels up to get a better view; beyond the older _mec_ ’s bared, twitching buttocks, he can see the other boy, head moving up and down his cock in a long smooth suck, eyes fixed on his.

He’s got a beautiful mouth, the tall boy, it’s put to regular good use by the visitors to _La Petite Ceinture_ , but Lucas never sees him smile, never sees him laugh, and _never_ sees him staring at anyone as he is at Lucas right now, dropping his head back and letting the tip of the _mec_ ’s cock play wetly around his lips. His eyes half close as he tongues at the head in slow, sloppy licks, rolling the _mec_ ’s foreskin back so Lucas can have an uninterrupted view of the lengths that he’s slowly taking deep inside his pretty mouth; in, out, in out – suck-swallow, suck, swallow – suck deeper, pull off, lick, tongue, suck again –

Lucas’s own mouth waters and he shudders with need at the sight, his remaining inhibitions dropping away as he tries to match him; movement for movement, imagining it was the other boy’s lips around him instead of the tedious familiarity of his own hand, wondering what it would be like to have the other boy touch him, kiss him, and see him smile and laugh from only a few inches away instead of twelve feet of dirty air.

He mirrors the tall boy’s actions with his own fingers; following the way he takes the _mec_ ’s cock to the hilt in his long throat with a long rub and squeeze, adjusting to short, sharp motions as the boy’s pretty face gets remorselessly fucked by the _mec_ in increasing excitement, his lips pressed open and his blurred eyes still fixed on Lucas. The boy can clearly see what Lucas is doing, up on the bank in the moonlight, so in a burst of daring, Lucas sits up and jerks himself fully, giving the tall boy a full view of his stiff, erect cock, and enjoying the way the other involuntarily squirms his bottom down onto his heels and clutches at himself at the sight –  

***

Eliott lets his wet, open lips slide up and down the man’s shaft, watching the boy’s small wrist quicken and slow in time with him, chasing his movements. His own breath is coming harder and harder, his cock pressing against his tight jeans, begging to be touched like the other boy is touching his own, the way that Eliott wishes to be touching him, kissing him, wondering how he tastes when he’s sucked and how he smells and how he feels –

The smaller boy is letting Eliott lead the motion, setting the pace that he follows, and it goes straight to Eliott’s head, making him feel foolhardy and feverish in equal parts. He pulls off, mouth wet and open and the other boy freezes, fingertips quivering, waiting for him to start again with the downwards thrust. The air zings with that same soundless humming and Eliott gazes hungrily at the boy; he’s not making any attempt to hide his need, and he’s enjoying watching him play with his cock a million times more than he’s enjoying blowing the _mec_. As they lock eyes again Lucas can hear the boy’s thoughts as plain as day:

_I wish it was you – I wish it was you – I wish it was you –_

_I wish it was you too_ , Eliott tries to telegraph back as the mec takes his face in both hands and administers a bout of hard thrusts as he approaches his climax that has Eliott rocking and choking for breath. He pushes the guy off and turns his streaming eyes back to the boy who has crept closer to the tunnel edge in the meantime, nervously, like a stray cat towards a warm fire.

_Could it be you – could it be you – could it be you –_

He can tell the smaller boy is close now, bucking his hips into his curled fist, and eyes fixed on him urgently in silent query.

_I’m only gonna come when you want me to –_

Eliott’s completely forgotten about the guy he’s meant to be sucking when he turns his head and gazes at the boy, mouth open and tongue curling slowly around his wet lips.

_Come now, come now._

He can see the smaller boy gasp and shake in response, fingers flying blurred around his cock, and all of a sudden there’s a silvery spatter pulsing into the air as the boy convulses, face twisted as if he’s almost in pain, curling onto his side into the moonlight like a dirty, fallen cherub in the throes of orgasm.

Eliott gazes at him as if struck by lightning, drinking up every sight and angle of the beautiful boy like nectar, as he frantically palms at his own cock until he starts to spurt hot and dirty in his underwear. He’s so consumed by bliss and entranced in gazing at his sated angel that he doesn’t even notice when the _mec_ next to him grabs him by his hair and spatters all over his cheek.

***

Lucas stands up shakily, tucking himself away, feeling suddenly cold in the chill night air. He feels _weak_ , as weak as if he’s run a race, his whole body bathed in sweat and the thigh of his jeans still stained with small dark drops. He cleans himself up as well as he can with his handkerchief, avoiding the eyes of the last of the circling punters, and when he looks up, the _ceinture_ is practically deserted.

The taller boy is getting up off his knees, wiping his mouth, head bowed, as if he doesn’t want to face his audience; the _mec_ has already vanished into the shadows and all of a sudden they’re left alone after their odd communion, standing only a few feet apart; the tall boy in the mouth of the darkened tunnel and Lucas awkward and exposed on the moonlit bank.

Lucas can’t think of a goddamned thing to _say_.

***

Eliott feels the knees of his jeans damp and dirty from the tunnel and the stickiness of the night’s events clings to him as he adjusts his clammy underwear and cleans his face with his sleeve.

This is the moment where the shame and disgust usually creeps up on him; a feeling that he tries to fend off until he’s safely at home, but something is _different_ tonight, something – _new_ , something – magical.

He feels confused and uncertain; this isn’t how the night usually goes; for one thing, the pretty smaller boy is still here – he hasn’t disappeared with the last of the punters like he usually does. And it’s more than that; he’s _looking_ at him, really _seeing_ him, despite the fact that Eliott’s a creature of the night who’s only good for slinking in tunnels and the shameful secret acts that you can only do down here in the anonymous darkness where no one knows your name.

The stars are out tonight; wheeling over the huge sky in points of light. There’s the sweep of the Ursa Minor constellation in the blackness with the brightest pole-star at its point, echoing the larger formation of the Great Bear that is already circling its way below the treeline with the fading night. The sight of Polaris gives Eliott some kind of hope; maybe there is some guiding star up there that they’ve fallen under, and he hesitantly takes a step forward, _out_ , out of the comforting blackness and into the light.

***

_Tonight’s the night. Go and talk to him._

“Are you leaving?” Lucas asks anxiously without thinking, and is impressed by the way his voice doesn’t shake as much as his knees.

The taller boy looks around uncertainly, as if unwilling to meet his eye. “I guess. I mean, I don’t think there’s anyone else coming tonight.”

The few shadows that remained have melted into the darkness, all that is left of the night’s orgy is a few scattered bottles of beer and some dark stains rapidly seeping into the earth. They’re standing alone on the battered remains of the track; the long disused rail that stretches one way into the darkness of the bridge, and the other into the glimmering, fairytale woodland that surrounds them.

Lucas summons up all his courage and looks the taller boy full in the face. Up close he’s even prettier than Lucas had thought; delicate features and a Roman nose, deep-set haunted eyes and a mess of curls over his forehead. The boy looks up at the moon a moment as if drawing a reserve of courage from it, and then back down at Lucas standing before him. Lucas’s breath catches – _fuck, he’s beautiful_ – and there’s another long, awkward pause.

“Want to walk together?”

The words are out of Lucas’s mouth before he can think. The taller boy looks shy, pausing in the act of plucking at his bottom lip with his fingers. The faint starlight falls along his curls and outlines them in silver, he looks like some kind of statue, a life force imprisoned in a block of stone, like Pygmalion’s carving, alive and yet paralysed.

“Don’t speak much, do you?” Lucas raises an eyebrow, he might as well style this out. He softens his comment with a friendly smile. “It’s fine if you don’t want to, I just thought you might want some company on the way back.”

“I – well, okay.” The boy’s energy is less hesitant than his words; Lucas can sense a prickling, a cautious eagerness building underneath the other’s skin. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, it’s a nice walk along the woods there. I usually go out through the park gate. You?”

The boy smiles.

They fall into a comfortable silence as they walk down the track, small stones crunching under their heels, the small slice of sky visible above them through the encircling trees. Around them the woods are alive with nocturnal rustling; night-time predators slink past with barely a sound or a flash from their green eyes, there’s the endless scurry of tiny paws and the tiny rattle of pebbles.

Walking along the _ceinture_ , Lucas marvels; how awake it is when the world of humans is sleeping, it feels as if the trees are breathing freely at last, letting the stench of men out in the fresh breeze of the coming day.

“You come here a lot, don’t you?” asks the tall boy after a while, his eyes fixed on the ground.

“Sometimes,” lies Lucas; he’s been here every night for weeks. “I’ve seen you around a bit,” he ventures further and the boy smiles in that anxious, nervous way he has, and his fingers stray to his lips in the tell-tale gesture.

“I know.”

“What was that?” Lucas jumps a little as a pair of eyes flash at them from the shadows, yellow and gauzy, before they’re instantly gone.

“There’s night creatures all around here. Foxes and badgers. Mice too. Sometimes rats.”

“Ugh!” Lucas flinches at a snuffling grunt, and the boy giggles abruptly, a gentle, childish sound, his long-lashed eyes taking in his discomfiture.

“You don’t need to worry. It’s only hedgehogs.”

The boy’s hand brushes against his and suddenly there’s warmth there in the cold; their fingers rub together then link, curling into each other like small animals curling into their burrow. It’s the first proper physical contact they’ve had, although the intensity of their experience earlier could give the lie to it.

Lucas flinches slightly and the boy looks concerned, seeing for the first time the small bandage on the last two fingers of Lucas’s left hand.

“You hurt your hand?” he asks presently, and Lucas sighs; he doesn’t want to get into it _now_ , not when he’s enjoying walking through the moonlit wood holding hands with a beautiful boy by his side.

“Yeah. I got into a fight with my friends.”

The taller boy looks down, cradling Lucas’s bandaged hand in both of his own and examining it closely in the moonlight, his brows knitted in concern.

“It’s okay, it doesn’t hurt anymore,” lies Lucas, before catching himself. “Hurt much, I mean.”

The boy raises Lucas’s bandaged knuckles to his lips and kisses them softly. Lucas’s heart bumps in his chest at the light caress and the feeling of the warm breath on his fingers. The tall boy smiles down at him and Lucas suddenly can’t breathe any more.

“Don’t be scared,” the tall boy says, and Lucas knows that he’s talking to himself as much as anyone.

***

The stars are fading now; their shimmer whitening to nothingness as they reach the park; their guiding light blending into the coming dawn. It feels to Eliott that the heavens are opening around them, descending on them like a blessing; he’s waking _up_ , as if he’s a bear awakening from hibernation from a long, starving winter, or a child from a bad, anxious dream.

He feels suddenly alive and hopeful and full of possibility, as if the ground is awakening beneath his feet, the dead rails humming with the approach of a long-gone train come to carry him away, a voice that screams to him, _jump on, jump on, take this chance, you’ll regret it if you don’t –_

 “Here we are.” The smaller boy is at the gate now and their linked hands drop for a moment, there’s the familiar clink and the screech of metal as the gate is pushed open. The chill of the coming day is all around them, it’s that moment between sleep and wakefulness where the slumbering city begins to rouse itself, there’s the distant noise of traffic starting up, the odd raised voice and slammed car door, and all around them the sound of the birds heralding the dawn with an insistent _cheep cheep cheep._

Eliott hesitates. There’s a light in the sky now, the night is over and the detail is starting to creep back into the world; the pastel colours of green, blue, blushing pinks and yellows slowly soaking into the grey, twisted branches and leaves of the wood around them. He can see the boy’s large eyes – _blue_ , he’d guessed it right – and the light-brown shock of hair that springs out of his head like a bushy-tailed squirrel. He can see that the shirt he’s wearing is pale pink not white, and the small scuffed trainers and the bloodstains creeping through the bandaged hand of the two fingers on his left.

“What’s your name?” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

The boy smiles. “Lucas.”

“Eliott. I’m – I’m Eliott.”

A name, at last. Eliott will have to ask Lucas why he fought with his friends; he can tell the smaller boy has a story too, and he’s seized with curiosity to learn more about him, talk to him properly, not down in the suffocating, blind darkness, but out in the daylight. They could go for coffee maybe, or a walk in the park when it’s not night time, there’s a film on at La Cironcella that he’s always wanted to see, maybe Lucas might want to come with him or –

or something.

Lucas smiles, as if he knows what Eliott’s wondering, and holds the gate open to invite him to step through into the living world.

“Come on,” he says, with a smile that makes Eliott’s heart awaken. “I’ll walk you home.”

 

**THE END**


End file.
